☎ voicemail [v 2.0]

[as_damaged]

❝You've reached Allison Cameron, please leave a message.❞

☎ voicemail ☎ text message ☞ action

[ooc: retired thread, for reference, here.]

Comments

seems that I have been held, in some dreaming state;

[entangles]

Her thoughts were screaming at her all night, and the night after that night, and the night proceeding until Olivia decided that sleep was a lost clause. The first two nights she accepted on terms of necessity, too busy figuring this place out to let herself rest. But now on the third day, Olivia has realized there are only so many times you can pace a room, tracing a thread of memory on and on and on, and that - believe it or not - the human body had to rest.

If Walter could bottle sleep and sell it, he would make a fortune.

For now, some type of sedative would do. NyQuil. Antihistamines. Sleeping pills, if she was lucky. Unfortunately, Olivia isn't that lucky and her shelves are spotless. As for the nearest drug store--- hell, she hadn't had the time to locate one. It's this situation that leads her to the apartment opposite of hers, knocking at the door at 3 AM in the morning. Sorry, Cameron.

seems that I have been held, in some dreaming state;

[as_damaged]

It would be forgivable, certainly, if Cameron didn't answer the door. After all, it's the middle of the night. And indeed it's quite a while before the knocking yields any answer... But eventually the sounds of someone stirring are unmistakable, standing out against the relative silence of the sleeping building. The creaking of someone walking around, perhaps bumping against a table, pausing to steady herself.

Finally, deliberately, the footsteps approach the door, and are punctuated by the quiet scrape of the peephole. The door remains locked.

"Yes?"

The voice is feminine, the tone quite curt. Cameron doesn't sleep all that well here, either. She's far from thrilled to be woken.

hold my hand, ooh baby it's a long way down to the bottom of the river

[intheblanks]

[It's still Valentine's day when he arrives, the surest sign of how early this little slip must have turned into a full-blown tumble. He's uniformed in the casual clothes that it's suddenly, unseasonably warm enough for. Jeans and a short sleeved shirt. All his clothes are dark, now, like the old neon clashes suffered a spin cycle with a leaky ink pen. If it's a metaphor then he hasn't noticed, in the same way that he missed having marked his emancipation from House with a teenager's scruffy phase. Today's beard is only one day's worth of scratch. His hair is newly trimmed after one of the recent curses inspired a little more pride in his appearance.

But god, he's a state. By the time he knocks on Cameron's door the labour of his breathing, as he hangs off the handle, must be audible from the inside. There's a bottle of champagne with him, which is to say propped against the opposite wall. It's the good stuff, but it's been opened apparently by someone knocking the glass top into shards, and it's empty, and Chase has a cut lip to show for it.

He knocks, and he holds onto the garish red card, and reminds himself that he's here with permission.

(But he forgot to call).]

hold my hand, ooh baby it's a long way down to the bottom of the river

[as_damaged]

[Maybe she should have been a little firmer about calling.

Even if she'd been expecting company, she'd check the peephole first; but Chase, at least, doesn't warrant an interrogation before she unlocks the door. Unbolted, though, she only opens it halfway, not barring his entry but not providing a very warm welcome, either. After all, she doesn't even need to see the former bottle to know he's not in good shape. He's lucky that she wouldn't trust him to tend to that cut on his own, or she might not uphold her permission.]

I thought you were going to call first,

[she answers coolly, stepping back to give him space to pass, the action paired with a look that insists he do so. Trying to back out will only land him in more trouble now.]

→ TEXT; 15th, morning

[intheblanks]

WR RE YU

→ TEXT; 15th, morning

[as_damaged]

Is ░▓▒t y░▒? Ho░ ▒▓d yo▓ g░▓ o▒t?

( text

[entangles]

th░░ o░▒▓ia. i'▒ st▒▓░k--lik▒ the ci▓░, but it'░ ░▒▓░▒▓

( text

[as_damaged]

wh▓ ▒░ t▒░▓?

Yo░▒ ▓░▒▓sage i░▓'t c▒▓░ng th░▓▒gh

[entangles]

[ buzz, buzz goes your doorbell. ]

[as_damaged]

[She checks the peephole and cracks the door open, standing in the open space.]

→ we are not what you think we are we are golden

[goodboysgood]

[It's coming up to midnight and the grand confetti-filled closedown of the dance, but they're not there yet. The square has emptied a little at the edges and crowded in toward the middle as the music clicks on to a stream of ballads (the kind of thing none of them admit listening to but all somehow know). Chase has steadfastly kept his jacket on through the sweatier section, though his shirt has come down a couple of buttons, and he's half emptied one of the plastic glasses he brings back to her.]

You were right, about the soda. [He offers the full one.] Tap.

→ we are not what you think we are we are golden

[but_not_best]

It's inevitable. I was probably right about the bathrooms, too.

[She's smiling at him as she takes it, not too shy now since they've been here all night. She's knotted her hair back into a loose bun, and takes a long sip of the soda as soon as it's in her hands. There's more of a breeze here but it's a warm night, and they haven't entirely kept clear of the dance floor, either.]

So. Moon landing?

Voicemail: 11th August: 12:15am

[intheblanks]

[Whether she's home to listen to it or not, the phone in Allison Cameron's apartment rings long enough to default to voicemail, and a message starts playing through. No preamble, he sounds a little too tired for it.]

Your patient crashed around 11:25 - kidneys weren't up to the IV antibiotics, you're going to need to look at finding something more specific. No need to rush back in if you get this before morning. If he's going to check out before then he'll manage it whatever you do. Anyway, I've got him as stable as I can, tomorrow you could be happy-

[Well. That was unusually tuneful and seemingly unexpected. Chase clears his throat and tests again.]

You could be happy and I won't-

[Okay.]

You can press delete on this message now.

[Because he can't quite hang up.]

You could be happy and I won't know,
But you weren't happy the day I watched you go.

And all the things that I wished I had not said,
Are played in loops 'till it's madness in my head.

Is it too late to remind you how we were,
But not our last days of silence, screaming, blur.

Most of what I remember makes me sure,
I should have stopped you from walking out the door.

You could be happy, I hope you are,
You made me happier than I'd been by far.

Somehow everything I own smells of you,
And for the tiniest moment it's all not true.

Do the things that you always wanted to,
Without me there to hold you back, don't think, just do...

Text;

[as_damaged]

thank you for the update. maybe we should--

Good luck with the curse

August 15th:

[intheblanks]

[And Chase has been at work all day, which makes things difficult when it comes to victory kisses, since his job involves fixing people and he happens to be good at it. But he's survived mostly unscathed, and even made it out to pick up some groceries, and then render them irrelevant by stopping into an Indian take-out just off the square. He's carrying the results now in two bags, trying not to let the hot one knock against the one keeping other things cool.]

August 15th:

[as_damaged]

[It would be nice, wouldn't it, if you could schedule life around curses; but days like today really aren't all that unusual. It's silly to put off errands today, when tomorrow you might find yourself immobile or intangible or someone else entirely.

She's on her way out, still unencumbered, trying to keep to the edge of the sidewalk (and thus out of reach,) but it's tough to manage any distance in a crowd. And, this being the City, there is one; some people immune to this curse, some too busy or too jaded to stay off the streets; some, no doubt, using it to their advantage.

When she nearly slams into him, it's because she's sidestepping a couple who seem to be enjoying it far too much.]

→ TEXT

[intheblanks]

can you do me a favour?

→ TEXT

[as_damaged]

that depends on what it is

Xmas:

[intheblanks]

[The card is tucked inside the boxed gift left on Cameron's desk. It reads, simply, To a good one. Robert.

The title of the imitation book is The Golden Bowl, and there's a copy of the real thing included with the card.]

→ CARD

[intheblanks]

[Signing this only ? should make it impossible to guess.]

[the 20th]

[intheblanks]

[As a procession of florists have been unable to deliver, over the course of the day the hallway outside Allison Cameron's apartment has turned into a floral bower. Among the blooms:

tulips: hopeless love
acacia: friendship
adonis: sorrowful remembrance
artemisia: absence
marigold: despair
flowering almond: hope
french willow: bravery and humanity
lime flowers: conjugal fidelity
daphne: desire to please
tamarisk: crime
asphodel: regrets
pink carnation: i will never forget you
bridal rose: happy love
honeysuckle: bonds of love
maidenhair: secrecy
bearded crepis: protection
rosebay: beware
cypress: death
mourning bride: i have lost all
dog rose: pain and pleasure
volkamenia: may you be happy

No card but wow, someone's conflicted.]

→ CALL

[intheblanks]

any plans?

→ CALL (did you mean text loveling? <3)

[as_damaged]

Staying out of the way, I think.

action »

[thenormalsquint]

[She had to ask around for two things trying to find this apartment; first the address, obviously, but secondly to get the address she had to get the resident's last name and God if Angela remembered that much. The longer she remains here, the more she realizes she's forgotten a lot more in the twisty time period she's been back home. Some less important than others, but the bigger ones worry her, the faces she can't put with names or names she can't put with faces. Events she has no recollection of happening. Losing her memory never was fun for her.

But she's here, knocking on this apartment's door, not sure if Allison Cameron is home or not. It's worth a try, really, before attempting to hunt her down at the hospital during this influenza party or whatever the new City talking heads are calling it. And Angela's not dressed for the occasion, still rocking the borrowed men's clothes, though they are now tied up and knotted in certain places because things are loose and loose things fall down. Oh well. Cameron is nice enough not to make fun of her for it, at least Angela thinks she remembers.]

action »

[as_damaged]

[She's home-- it's usually a safe bet that she will be if she's not at work, though the only reason she's not right now is that she knows if she doesn't take some time to sleep and breathe she'll be joining her patients.

The scrape of the cover on the peephole is followed by the clatter of locks being unbolted, though in her haste (or perhaps out of habit,) she doesn't unhook the chain, so rather than throwing the door open she only cracks it.]

Angela?